Don’t you hate it when bloggers apologize for having nothing to say? Or being too lazy to update their blogs on a regular basis? Or being too busy?

Yesterday Jesus rose from the dead about 2008 years ago, which has stirred up a whole lot of trouble ever since. And I suppose I could Google something like “origin of The Easter Bunny” to figure out why we have cute bunnies dropping secret eggs all over the place for all the children to find in order to celebrate the resurrection of a Lord and Saviour, but to tell you the truth, I don’t give a shit.

(We have a new verb to add the lexicon that is Standard American English: to “Google” things. See how this works? As society evolves — or devolves — we make up new words).

Anyways, what I do care about is the fabulous toy my Easter Bunny brought me — an Apple Airport Express! Get this — I plug the Airport Express into the wall in my front room, and my iMac talks to it, and sends the Airport Express signals that contain my iTunes right into my old home stereo, and the next thing you know I’m streaming iTunes through my whole house!

iPods and iTunes and iMacs…all words that didn’t exist a decade ago.

You probably know all about Airport Express, and I kinda did, until I made it all work, which, in typical Apple fashion, was as easy as Adrianna Nicole peeing on Sunset Boulevard after a long night drinking icey margaritas at El Conquistador.

Suddenly, bootleg versions of Radiohead were streaming through my home! And Elvis Costello’s first three records! And Vic Chestnut! And Bright Eyes, too…although I much prefer the manly name “Conor” to the super-gay “Bright Eyes”.

Bright Eyes is something a 65 year-old Cat Lady names the 54th kitty she’s rescued from the pound.

The other really cool thing about this whole Airport Express / iTunes / iMac madness is a juxtaposition of technologies: the Apple set up works perfectly with my tube electronics that were produced (and considered cutting-edge technology) in 1962.

As far as I’m concerned, my tube electronics are still cutting-edge, yo.

Now it’s Dance Hall Reggae in the shape and form of Phyllis Dillon, which means it’s time for me to dance naked in my front room with Maggie by my side and a cup of coffee in my hand.

Wouldn’t you love to live next to a chubby white dude who dances naked in his front room with the windows open?

I can’t dance, by the way…not to save my life.

Take a sec and picture that, why don’t you?